Chapter 3:The Book Of Creation
Silence bathed the entirety of the Ethereal Realm. The flowing, golden river, woven from the Weaver's Loom, stilled in its glorious cadence.
Not that he cared. His hands moved to pet the crow on his shoulder, a habit conceived late, after witnessing the journey of existence since Creation – eons and dawns fractured by wars, inconsistencies threading the grand scheme. A boring spectacle, he had deemed it.
"If I may," her voice resonated again, the decree of Fate asserting dominion over the still realm, "may I reckon what brings the Revered Dream, or may I say, Mephis Meredith, upon my grand tapestry?"
"Pay no heed to such minor inconsistencies as epithets, O lowly Weaver." The words flowed from his lips, momentarily draining the realm from Time's grasp. The realm stilled once more. "And I suppose my presence in this 'glorious' cage of yours speaks volumes concerning my reasons," he added with a sigh, his hands gently tossing the dark orb in his grasp. The realm quaked in rhythm as Time held its breath.
"It is an attested truth, Dream Lord," her voice now emanated from the realm itself, from convoluted mouths held agape by colossal statues of mortals singing unsung glories and praise. "I seek not your bondage. Those threads bind the confines of your mortal self, Meredith. The Fate seeks no reckoning from The Dreaming."
"Just how diminutive is your knowledge of the grander scheme of things, O bounded deity? Is it nothing but a pale contrast to your vast domains under the consignments of Fate?" he muttered, his eyes narrowing on the towering deity. "Isn't it a known fact that I now reign dominion over this mortal identity, as… *The Dream*?" His voice, dangerously subtle, added, whilst the realm itself held its breath, "And yet, your crimson loom of perilous destiny still weaves through me. Meredith is no more than a forgone mortal whose soul currently resides in a new world within The Dreaming. I am… now… what further enlightenment predates you, O Weaver."
"I seek not to enrage the one before Creation," her voice cut through the dissonance, the realm breathing once more. "But it is a well-known truth that all balance is born from laws and guided by the Looms of Fate and Destinies. I exist no more as the Threader, and those looms I cannot unbind."
"Oh, Weaver, how belittled I am in your chessboard of convictions..,How low has your reverence fallen that you speak to me of laws and balance?" His voice muttered, calm but laced with hidden ferocity. The dark orb, the very embodiment of the Dreaming, spiraled in a dangerous crimson, the radiance from the looms of Fate dying before it could wander. "Or should I perhaps enshroud this diminutive realm of yours within the dreams of a puny mortal, or the wishes of an infinite? And in my glorious cathedral, it shall find its place as no mere tool for luminosity." The orb spiraled in a drowning vortex, the radiant tapestry of Fate bathed in tremors, drowning it to its rims. "Coat your next words with wisdom, O bounded deity. Your existence, and all that sprouts from you, lies dependent on it."
He was channeling his true essence and authority as Dream of the Nameless, the one before Creation.
The colossal voice, calm and serene, held a hint of contempt. "It is a decision I deem unwise. Spare me, Dream Lord. In my sanity, I doubt not your omnipotence; in my splendor, not your transcendence." Then came a break. The foundation of the realms suspended in thorough stillness. "But… the Watchers of thy Author, their sights are set upon your glory. For you have performed nothing less than a transgression before thy Maker. I advise you, O Dream Lord, enrage no further."
He heaved. The swirling vortex birthed from the orb, the radiance of the Fate looms brightening back in their splendor. Her counter was quite impressive and placating.
His hands stroked much calmer the crow on his shoulder, now giving a soft caw – truly his vital companion.
In that moment, a bright smile illuminated his face.
"What amusement now overcomes thy Dream Lord?" the weaver's inquisitive voice predated the silence. "Spare me, if not the grace to question."
"It is beyond you, O lowly infinite, to peer beyond the narrative veil. How, then, do you possess such knowledge?" he questioned, his hand now tapping the armrest of his throne.
"That," her voice raked the realms, the Celestial Weaver, "on my reverence to the Dream Lord, I cannot disclose. You now dwell as a mortal within the lower spheres, O Dream Lord. What persuaded thy One before all to take such a rash step?"
"I owe you no answer, nor are my decisions worth questioning by the worthless," his voice pierced the air, laced with an authority that dominated frugality. "Tell me, perhaps, more of the messages sent by those Above."
"By your will, I shall disclose, His Revered Dream," her voice sounded. "O Dream Lord, this before you is the message from Above. You disrupted the scripts of thy Author, descending upon thy mortal realms, whilst unleashing absolute dominion upon the lesser spheres – another derailment from the wishes of thy Author." Then, her voice shifted, new hues of thread birthed from her, stretching above the cathedral. New destinies were being woven. "I suggest, O Dream Lord, you halt your display of magnificence, for thou riskest the rage of the ones Above."
"Oh, how Insulting..Restraint on my magnificence..Then I suppose you propose I live in the same caliber as lesser gods..Truly diminutive." Shutting his eyes with a heave, he added, "It is below the Dream to live like a mere mortal, in a world infested by faith and devotion to deities beneath the veil."
Silence bathed the entirety of the realms. Then, a voice beyond ethereal pierced the stillness.
"I propose an alternative, O Dream Lord. The Book of Creation, forged by the essence of the one who birthed the Creator, possesses, if not the essence to veil before their watchful eyes, your very activities." Her voice paused, then resumed. "I happen to have my sights on it, and I shall reveal it on a simple condition."
"Do not speak to me of terms, nor ensnare me with conditions. I will to know, and thou shalt utter," he spoke.
And for the second time, the radiance of the looms of destiny dimmed.
"I offer my apologies, Dream Lord, for even if you were to display thy magnificence, it merely shall birth nothing but judicial penance from the ones Above. I suggest you heed my terms," the Celestial Weaver muttered, her voice imposing on the realm as law.
He heaved, his pale hands leaving his armrest, raking his obsidian dark hair backward before assuming the initial position. How shortsighted was he to not see the conceptual chessboard he just entered. Truly a mess.
"I know of thy wish, O lowly Fate-spinner. It lies in the numerous orbs sprouting from thy vortex in my domain of the Dreaming," he muttered, his voice an aggregate of low decadence. "To free thyself of the bondage of these looms of Fate and Destiny, and thereafter ascend in splendor, as a true, unbound deity."
"If they lord, was in your knowledge of thy wish, why then, O Primordial wish-granter, was my plea left unanswered?" Fate questioned, Destiny inquired.
"Do not gratify thyself, O lowly deity. You simply held no value in my eyes," he spoke, locking his eyes on the colossal figure towering above him. Something below him, now barking terms and conditions. These lowly vermin truly bite when you are down. A lowly one who perhaps hasn't witnessed the full cycle of galaxies, now dares impose on him. Just how low has he, the Dream, fallen.
"But it seems circumstances are in your favor, O weaver. Tell me, perhaps, where to lay my hands on this glorious Book of Creation, and unbind these crimson looms of Fate. Then I shall grant your wish and aid your battle against the Angel of Fate."
"Very well then, Dream Lord..." Her voice pierced the air, the countless looms glowing brightly, illuminating the entirety of the Tapestry of Fate. But to him, it was no more than a fluttering candlelight compared to the inferno of dying galaxies; this itself was no more than a flickering flame. "When from thee, this bondage finally unbounds, I shall retain the prowess to break thine free of thy Fate."
His chin rested on his palm, hung tiredly. Fatigue was catching up to this mortal body, but with a flick of his hands, it all disappeared.
"Now disclose before me, O Weaver, where I can find this glorious Book of Creation you reckoned about."
"That… O Dream Lord… I shall," her voice, as pristine as Perfection itself, bellowed. "Within the memories of the Ascended Angel of Balance, Gabriel, a glimmer of his essence lies in the confines of the mortal realm." Her words continued. "O Dream Lord, you shall ascend those memories via a mortal rite termed Hypnoapotheosis, and in your first mystery stage, you shall gaze upon thy Book of Creation, as Fate has decreed, seven days from now."
A sigh escaped his mouth, his hands moving back to pet the crow on his shoulder. His dark visage, a stark contrast to the glowing luminescence of the Tapestry. To perform a divination for a being below him… the entire glorious cadence of the Tapestry of Fates shuddered as the very concept of Time died. Truly, as he deemed, it was far below being diminutive. The Dream idolizes no deity; fallen or not, they all weren't worthy of his reverence. But of theirs… he was.